


None by Halves

by HugeAlienPie



Series: Identities [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The West Wing, TiMER (2009)
Genre: Clubbing, Crossover, Francis the Silversmith, M/M, Phil Coulson is Mike Casper, Post-Avengers (2012), Soulmate-Identifying Timers, pedants in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint braced himself, but the conversation did not, as he'd feared, devolve into the others grilling him about being an Avenger. And it didn't seem to have occurred to the others, except possibly Marbury, that, given Clint's deception, Phil might not be who he'd claimed, either. Considering their positions in the world's most powerful government, Clint wondered if he should worry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	None by Halves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_wordbutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/gifts), [Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/gifts).



> Darndest thing happened here. This started as just a sequel to "SHIELD and Seal," but suddenly there were timers, and it sort of fell into the same 'verse as "[Love, 21st-Century Style](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1043401)." If you've read the former but not the latter, you'll be okay as long as you know that there are now soulmate timers (what?). If you've read the latter but not the former, you'll be quite lost.

When Clint emerged from the bathroom, Phil had been on the verge of asking after something he'd packed and now couldn't find. One look at his husband and it ceased to matter.

Phil developed his packing philosophy in the Rangers and honed it as a SHIELD field agent. He'd yet to encounter a mission objective he couldn't accomplish with two suits and an extra tie. That left him underprepared for a night at Bethesda's hottest gay club, but he figured that, by ditching his jacket and tie, rolling up his sleeves, and leaving his top two shirt buttons undone, he could avoid the worst accusations of squareness.

Clint, having grown up in a circus and spent years on SHIELD's weirdest undercover missions, had a stronger belief in the power of costume. He never knew when he might need to play an arrogant oil baron, a shy seminarian, or an angry emo kid (or all three in one day; Yellville had been a bugfuck crazy mission). Somehow, he always managed to cram a half dozen personae-worth of costumes into his go-bag.

The man standing in front of Phil both was and was not Clint Barton. The obscenely tight jeans and clinging gray t-shirt suggested a man accustomed to considering his body his only asset. The soft fall of his hair across his forehead and the nervous twisting of his wedding ring-- _not_ one of Clint's habits--spoke of one not used to having someone value him for more than the physical. Phil's heart squeezed in his chest--they'd had this conversation so many times.

Clint gave a lopsided smile. "The best covers have a little truth in them, right?"

Not only did Phil not find what he'd been looking for in his suitcase, but for the next twenty minutes they forgot they'd had anywhere else to be.

*

"Maybe if you stab it a few more times, it'll really be dead."

Sam looked at the paper in front of him. Usually, words he'd changed his mind about received one precise strikethrough. This one had five. He smiled sheepishly at Will--and forgot what he'd been thinking about.

You could never _know_ what anyone else experienced when they met their soulmate, but reports included everything from spontaneous simultaneous orgasm to seeing the rest of your life flash before your eyes. The first time Sam saw Will across the wall of mattresses in Horton Wilde's campaign headquarters, something inside that he hadn't known was tensed uncoiled, and he'd thought, _Yes, please._ He still got that feeling sometimes when he looked at Will.

Will smiled back, and Sam guessed he was feeling something similar. "It was a _very_ bad word," Sam offered.

Will nodded and stepped into the office. "All the more reason to close your laptop, step away from your desk, and come dancing."

A grin split Sam's face. "Mezza!"

Will grinned back. "Mezza."

The grin fell beneath a wave of horror. "I'm not dressed for clubbing!"

Will leaned out of the office and returned with Sam's garment bag dangling from one fingertip. "You will be."

Sam swooped across the space and grabbed the bag, snaking his other arm around Will's waist. "This is why I love you."

Will tapped the zeroed-out timer on Sam's wrist. " _This_ is why you love me."

Sam snorted and leaned in for a kiss. "Cynic."

"And yet, somehow," Will replied, returning the kiss with interest, "still a hopeless romantic."

They were _very_ late leaving the office.

*

"Lady Marbury!"

Josh chuckled as he crossed Mezza's parking lot. Behind him, John growled--which was half the fun. When he pulled even with Rex, Josh bowed like he'd been taught.

The reporter laughed. "Well done, yer ladyship." His exaggerated 'man of the people' accent, a thousand miles from John's cultured RP tones, sold copies, but Josh and John were in on the act: Rex had grown up in an affluent part of Dorset not far from the Marbury family pile. The knowledge led them to an uneasy truce and a peculiar friendship.

"You've picked the wrong place to trawl, Rex," Josh said. "No closet cases here."

"But there's always a story, innit? Somebody shows up with a different bloke from last time, or flashing new bling." Rex waggled his left ring finger meaningfully.

"We must be a crushing disappointment to you," John said dryly.

"Nah, you've got _class_ , you 'ave." Rex snapped their picture. "The 'ome crowd eats you two up."

They did, at that. Josh laughed and waved Rex off, then took John's arm and steered him inside. "I don't mind it," Josh said.

"I do," John said grimly.

"John, since the dawn of the peerage it's been Lady This and Lady That. You're the first British noble to legally marry a same-sex partner. What else are they going to call me?"

John lifted an eyebrow. "I find 'Mr. Lyman' works nicely."

Josh gave a dismissive snort. "Not very royal."

"Nor are you."

"Hey!" Josh poked John in the ribs. "I ooze nobility from every pore. _Class._ Rex said so."

"Rex also says he once took three members of Manchester's most ruthless gang in a knife fight, so a whole _shaker_ of salt is required with anything he says." He tapped Josh's zeroed-out timer thoughtfully. "We _are_ slow to accept change. I suppose I've this thing to thank for being allowed to marry you at all--or without losing my title." He smiled fondly at Josh. "Though I would've done it even if it _had_ cost me the title."

Josh held his gaze as sincerely as he could for as long as he could, but, as Leo had pointed out many times, he had snark in his soul. John, who knew that better than anyone, looked not in the least surprised when Josh protested, "But then I wouldn't be Lady Marbury!"

*

It must be nice, Will thought as he spotted Josh and John sprawled across one arm of an enormous U of couches, to be British ambassador to the United States and have 'people' to take care of pesky details like laundry or the Sultan of Brunei's birthday gift. The Lyman-Marburys _always_ beat them to wherever they were going, because someone else was minding the store at the embassy.

As he and Sam sank into the soft white leather of the adjoining arm of the U, Will noticed with amusement that Josh's pisswater Annheiser-Busch monstrosity bristled with orange cocktail swords. His Ladyship wasn't fucking around tonight.

"Any sign of the others?" Will asked.

"Nope," Josh said. "Agent Casper and Francis the Silversmith are not yet in evidence."

"Silversmith?" Sam frowned. "Francis works for Stark Industries. PR."

"That's stupid," Josh scoffed. "How would he do PR for Stark from Lichtenstein?"

Will stared at him. "They live in New York."

A chuckle drier than champagne rolled over them. "You poor, deluded souls," John murmured. "You still don't believe me."

They turned on him, explaining once again about Mike Casper's moral rectitude and inability to lie--although Will was starting to wonder if they did protest too much.

"Very well, if you must be obdurate, I'd like to insist upon a wager," John said.

"Fifty bucks," Josh said instantly.

"Twenty," Sam countered. "We aren't all married to earls."

"Twenty," John conceded. " _Each_."

"Who do _you_ think he is?" Sam asked when they'd shaken on it.

"Not him." John offered one of his most enigmatic smiles. "Francis."

"Who's he, then?" Josh asked.

"You don't know? Any of you?" John looked from face to face with something like despair. "Three Yanks and an Englishman, and I'm the only one who follows American news."

"I was born in Brussels," Will said.

"On an American military base," John said. His grin widened. "In that case, gentlemen, the man's identity is mine to know and yours to uncover." His gaze fell on Will's Long Island iced tea, and he scowled. "Why do you drink such needlessly complicated concoctions?"

"I can open a bottle of scotch myself. If someone else is making my drink, I'm asking for something that requires mixing skills and hardware I don't have at home. "

"Amen to that, bro."

They all looked up at the sound of Francis's voice. "You found us!" Sam cheered.

"Sure did." Francis vaulted the back of the remaining arm of the couch, landing neatly beside Mike, who'd appeared from seemingly nowhere. Will had to admit Francis was...suspiciously ripped for a PR guy.

Conversation flowed through world events, sports, the 'superhero renaissance', and other sorts of BS topics six queer guys chatted about on a Saturday night. John seemed to have abandoned his quest to unmask anyone's secret identity, and the others weren't interested in bringing it up.

They'd been there nearly an hour when two young women walked by holding hands. The brunette wore a gray tank top with a stylized arrow on it; the blue-haired one sported a purple t-shirt with Hulk's snarling green face taking over the chest in a way that Will really preferred not to dwell on. They were almost past when the brunette froze and then descended on Francis in a flurry. "Oh my _god_!" she squealed, but with admirable volume control. "I can't believe you're here! Where we are! Right here! Please, please sign...uh... _something_!"

Francis laughed lightly. He accepted the pen Mike handed over and grabbed a cocktail napkin off the pile next to his drink. Will hadn't thought to wonder why he had so many. "What's your name?"

"Ana," she said. "With one n. I'm a _huge_ fan."

"You sure? You look like a little fan." He smiled and winked, and for a second Will was sure the kid was going to swoon. He handed over the napkin, which one-n-Ana cradled like a holy relic. Francis looked at the blue-haired girl. "How 'bout you? I see you're more of a Hulk fan, but I could still sign something for you."

"You're my second-favorite," she blurted, and then turned bright pink.

"You totally are," Ana said.

"It's okay," he told them, smiling. "I'm a fan of the big guy, too." After  he signed a napkin for Gen-with-a-g, the young women left, giggling and peeking at him over their shoulders. An embarrassed silence fell over the group.

Will felt blind _._ He'd watched the coverage of the Battle of Manhattan--obsessively, according to Sam--though he'd been focused on Hulk at the time. He and Sam had _written the speech_ the president delivered and the special commendation he gave the Avengers when he traveled to New York after the invasion. How had he missed this? "You're Hawkeye," he blurted.

Francis--no, _Clint_ \--blushed. "Guilty." Will saw the matching dumbfounded looks on Josh's and Sam's faces and ignored John's smugness.

Or did, until John murmured, "Twenty each, I believe."

"Shut up," Josh muttered, but a bill was already slipping into John's hand--not that he needed it, rich titled bastard.

Mike leaned forward. "You strike me as men who understand the need for discretion."

There was a chorus of agreement around the table. Mike leaned back and picked up his drink, and Clint relaxed against his side. There didn't seem to be anything more to say on the subject. 

*

Clint braced himself, but the conversation did not, as he'd feared, devolve into the others grilling him about being an Avenger. Will, who turned out to be an Air Force reservist, had surprisingly insightful questions about using a bow in battle, but after those petered out, talk turned back to previous topics. And it didn't seem to have occurred to the others, except possibly Marbury, that, given Clint's deception, Phil might not be who he'd claimed, either. Considering their positions in the world's most powerful government, Clint wondered if he should worry.

Twenty minutes later, Clint felt itchy. He glanced toward the dance floor. "I'm gonna dance." He didn't ask if Phil wanted to join him, and he knew Phil would understand. Sometimes Clint needed to be alone with the music and his body, without anyone's hands on him--even his husband's.

Phil nodded. "Have fun. Be safe." He waved his nearly empty glass. "Bring me another when you come back."

"Got it." He dropped a kiss next to the corner of Phil's eye and pushed off the couch, waving at the others as he sauntered toward the dance floor. He scanned the place as he went, taking its measure. He'd checked sight lines and exits when they arrived, but that hadn't given him a feel for the place.

When Sam and Will called Mezza 'the best', Clint hadn't been sure what to expect. What made something the best gay club? In Mezza's case, the answer appeared be that it had _everything._ The dance floor he was headed toward was one of three. The one in the basement played '80s pop that wavered between nostalgic and ironic. He'd been told he could also play pool, darts, air hockey, foosball, and skeeball in the basement. One floor up was slow music of all eras, in case you wanted to pull that special someone close. Here on the main floor they stuck to standard club mixes, the kind that pounded in your blood and pulled your body inexorably into their rhythms. White couches like the ones their group had taken over dotted this level, singly and in sets of two, three, and four, as did a scattering of sleek chrome tables. On the floor above, secluded alcoves offered privacy for romantic evenings or political power-wrangling. But no one hid here. You could be alone, you could have your privacy, but you couldn't skulk or remain completely anonymous. What really made it the best, Clint supposed, was that the region's LGBT elite could be themselves, and the closet cases had to stay home.

Clint didn't care who was on the dance floor, as long as they gave him his space. He'd gotten used to living with a mess of other people and being on a team with more than Phil and Natasha, but sometimes he went into people overload and needed his own company. He dove into the rhythm, eyes closed and arms raised. When he danced he radiated 'hands off', and no one bothered him.

He lost track of time, but it couldn't have been more than 15 minute before he noticed a crowd gathering around a couple in the middle of the floor. The men seemed older than the usual club idols--his own age, maybe even Phil's. Surprise gave way to appreciation of the easy, sinuous way they moved together. They were soulmates; he'd bet anything. Two dark heads bent close, as though listening to a conversation without words; strong hands roamed across broad backs; a strong profile and a--

Shit.

Clint slipped from the dance floor. Mindful of his promise to Phil, he flagged down a passing server and ordered another round for everyone, pointing to their outpost before handing over too much money and racing back to the table.

"Drink?" Phil asked hopefully as Clint dropped onto the couch beside him.

"Coming. Ran into some trouble."

Phil cocked an eyebrow and shifted fractionally, giving himself easier access to his gun.

Clint put a hand on Phil's wrist. "Not like that," he said. " _Science!_ is here."

Phil gave a tiny groan. "Both of them?"

A nod.

"Did they see you?"

A shrug. "I don't think so, but you can never be sure with those guys." Phil huffed and shifted back, scowling slightly.

"Problem?" Sam asked.

"Nah." Clint waved it off. "Just saw the, uh, upstairs neighbors. Hoping they didn't spot me."

Josh, who'd acquired a club sandwich and fries somewhere along the line, set the sandwich down carefully. "You're an Avenger. That makes your upstairs neighbors--"

"Tony Stark. Great to meet you."

Clint groaned, and his head flopped against the back of the couch as Tony and Bruce squashed themselves between him and Phil.

Josh blinked at Tony, amused and unimpressed. "Josh Lyman." He jerked his thumb at John. "I think you know my husband."

Tony's eyes flicked to John, who regarded him with cool amusement. A devious smile crept over Tony's face. "John, you sly dog. I didn't know you were married."

A smile twitched the corners of John's lips. "You did. You sent us a very nice gift."

"Mm." Tony shook his head and swiped a fry from Josh's plate. "Pep's doing. Guaranteed." He gestured at Bruce. "This is Dr. Bruce Banner, one of the lights of my life. Bruce, this is Lord John Marbury, the British ambassador, and his husband Josh Lyman, who's Leo McGarry's deputy. I don't know these two--" He waggled middle and index fingers at Sam and Will. "--but they look overworked and abused, so I'm gonna guess they're Ziegler's people." His gaze swept their circle. "How did I do?"

Any surprise Clint felt about Tony knowing Marbury or guessing who the others were was superseded by Bruce raising his hand in a half-wave. "Hi, Will."

Will nodded back, smiling softly. "Bruce."

Tony's eyes widened in feigned hurt (or maybe not feigned; who could tell with Tony?). "You know him? You know someone I don't? I don't think you're allowed to know people I don't."

Bruce smiled. "I did have a life before I met you."

"Not a good one," Tony muttered.

"Will is Tom Bailey's son," Bruce said. "NATO forces in Eastern Europe were surprisingly sympathetic after the, um, unpleasantness in Brno."

Tony studied Will with a level of focus that often made grown men cry. Will just shifted a bit. Apparently satisfied with whatever he saw, Tony contented himself with taking another fry and saying, "I hope you weren't expecting pleasantness in _Brno_." He turned his laser focus on Clint. "Good day, Katniss? Start any more White House brawls, or have you moved on to the Supreme Court?"

"It was _one guy_ ," Clint protested at the same time Sam, Will, and Josh said, "That was _you_?!?" Clint sighed.

Tony patted Clint's knee. "We're all proud of you, even Cap, though he'll never say it." He leaned across Clint and peered at Phil. "How 'bout you, Agent? How're spy games?"

Phil's expression didn't change, but Clint noted his surprise in the slight shift of his shoulders. "Above your clearance level, Stark."

Tony put on his false sympathy face. "Whatsa matter? Your team lose the football game?"

" _Definitely_ above your clearance level."

Before Tony could needle Phil further and blow what was left of their cover, Clint tapped Bruce's knee. "Where's your better third?"

Bruce smiled. "Having girls' night with Agent Frank."

Clint's forehead wrinkled. "Agent Frank who designs the new recruit trainings and has a spectacular rack?" He ignored the sputtering from the other side of the table. He was married, not blind.

"Her husband," Tony said, and, at this point, he owed Josh a whole new order of fries, "is an actor. He's in that new play--the weird one with the mushrooms--and they're making a night of it."

"Pepper and Agent Frank?" Phil asked.

"Also Natasha, Jane, Darcy, Agents Hill and May, and Kate McCoy from Stark Legal," Tony said, and the four of them shuddered at the potential for world domination in that list.

Bruce frowned. "Kate quit."

"Pep convinced her to unquit," Tony said. "Turns out she can be bribed."

"Yeah? With what?" Bruce asked, suspicion poking through every syllable.

Tony flashed a smile that was genuinely apologetic at the same time it completely wasn't. "Lunch with you."

"Tony!"

"Anyway," Tony said, rising, "my groove thing has been insufficiently shaken, so I'm getting back out there. You coming, Bruce?"

"We will be talking about this lunch, Tony. Hank will never let me live it down," Bruce warned, but he reached up and let Tony help him out of the evilly plush couch. Tony scoffed. Clint considered telling Bruce to watch for the girl in the Hulk shirt, because meeting him would make her _life_. But as the only Avenger still capable of maintaining anything like a low profile, he tried to avoid situations like that. Clint settled for swatting Bruce's ass as he passed. Bruce chuckled and squeezed Clint's shoulder.

"You coming, Errol Flynn?" Tony asked. "You weren't out there long."

Clint shrugged, not bothering to wonder how Tony knew he'd been on the floor. "I'm good."

"All right. Well, g'night. Don't stay out too late; you've got a country to run."

" _We_ don't," Phil said, faintly amused.

Tony speared him with a piercing glance Clint couldn't read. "Not so sure about that, Agent," he said. Phil snorted, but it sounded almost fond to Clint.

The departure of the Banner-Stark whirlwind brought a shocking calm to the table, and Clint fought back a sigh. He'd seen this happen so many times when Tony left a place. He was too loud, too big, too _himself_ to endure in large quantities, but after he was gone, everything felt gray. If you weren't used to it, it could make you seriously question your life choices. The others would start making excuses and saying good-nights within the quarter-hour.

Before they could get to that point, the twinks arrived.

There were three of them. Clint had them pegged as trouble before the others even registered their approach. They were so young Clint wondered if they were here legally. Two didn't have timers, and the third wore an obvious fake. Clint didn't fault anyone's decision to skip a timer, but two unstampeds and a skimmer cruising together could only be interested in bondbreaking.

One kid dropped onto each couch. This close, they looked like a gay glam gang, in identical black fishnet shirts and sculpted fauxhawks (two brown, one blond), one in black leather pants and the others in super-tight jeans. If any of them started singing about being a gay Jet all the way, Clint would walk.

Clint spared a glance for the others. On Sam and Will's arm, a wall of pleasant obtuseness separated the kid from his target, which seemed to be Sam. Josh greeted the incursion with lowered eyebrows and the slow, ominous twirling of a cocktail sword.

"Hi," a voice purred in Clint's ear. Or tried to. Being a tempter worked better after your voice finished cracking. Clint gave him a look and didn't answer. "I'm Trevor. You're hot."

Well, points for bluntness. Clint tipped his glass toward the kid. "Thanks." He jerked his head toward Phil. "I'm also married. Go away."

Trevor peered around Clint. " _That's_ your husband?" Scorn dripped from his voice.

Fierce, protective anger flared in Clint, and he all but shoved his wrist into Trevor's face. "The timer doesn't lie."

Trevor sneered. "Timers are so bourgeois."

Clint snorted and lowered his arm. "Shouldn't say that so loud if you want anyone to fall for your fake."

"Hey, man," Trevor said indignantly, "it's real!"

Clint grabbed Trevor's arm, dug his fingernails under the timer's edge, and yanked. The cheap metal popped off with little resistance, and the only mark on Trevor's wrist was a faint rectangle of spirit gum residue. Clint became aware of everyone staring at him. He exhaled slowly.

"Dude," whispered the kid next to Sam, "you touched his timer."

"Fake," Clint said harshly, flipping it onto the table. Not that that was the point.

Unfortunately, the unorthodox behavior that scandalized the others impressed Trevor. "I like rulebreakers," he murmured, sliding closer.

"I _don't_ like bondbreakers," Clint said through clenched teeth. "Why don't you run along home?"

Trevor dropped his arm along the back of the couch behind Clint's head. He leaned up to Clint's ear, breath damp and smelling of Doritos and grape gum. "What your husband doesn't know--"

Clint assumed the sentence was going to end "won't hurt him," but Trevor never got the chance to say it. A flurry of movement on Clint's other side was followed by six faint _whump_ sounds. Clint and Trevor looked over at the same time. Clint burst out laughing. Trevor took considerably longer to realize what'd happened. He tried to move his fingers, but the six orange cocktail swords stabbed into the white leather around his hand completely immobilized them.

"The gentleman said no," Phil said with quiet and deadly calm. His hand hovered next to Trevor's. Clint saw the instant Trevor _got it_ , the moment he realized the man he'd dismissed without a second glance was the most dangerous in the group. Phil dropped his hand and plucked a sword loose. Instantly, Trevor could move his hand--and did, yanking it off the leather and racing away without a backward glance.

As his friends rushed to follow, Phil sipped his gin and tonic calmly, gaze landing on Josh. "Is that how you did it last time?"

After searching a minute for his voice, Josh managed, "I poked them in the sides 'til they moved away."

Phil tilted his head to the side, considering. Then he half nodded and took another drink. "That works, too."

*

Rex was long gone by the time Josh and John wandered out into the night, and Josh stifled his brief and bizarre pang of regret. Though CJ wanted to strangle him every time they made the papers--here or in the UK--he _liked_ being 'Lady Marbury', the scandalous Yankee husband. Plus, right now he was feeling thoroughly unnoteworthy.

"What you do today will direct this nation's course for decades to come," John said softly. Josh wasn't sure if he'd accidentally said the last part out loud, or if it was just John's obnoxious habit of always knowing what he was thinking.

"Or 'til the next yahoo reverses it," he grumped.

John slung an arm around Josh's shoulders, drawing him close. "Some ground, once won, can never be ceded."

"Bureaucracy," he said, not ready to be placated just yet.

"Superheroes serve our planet well in times of crisis," John said, "but you in the White House are creating the framework by which we live in other times--and by which, perhaps, future crises may be avoided."

Josh nodded. He'd thought he'd seen it all in his time in the White Houses, but reading the "Joint Chiefs' Protocol for Hostile Alien Incursion--Fifth Revision" after the Chitauri invasion had taken him to previously unimaginable heights--or depths--of freak-out. "That thing Mike did with the swords--"

"Needlessly showy," said the man who pretty much _defined_ 'needlessly showy' for their times. "Four swords would've been sufficient." He pressed a kiss to Josh's temple. "I've no interest in secret agents and superhero identities, Joshua. I prefer a man who commits his heroics _and_ his missteps in the light of day, so I can be properly proud of him."

Even given everything that had happened in New York, the Avengers still didn't endure the administration's level of sustained scrutiny. And they were doing a damned fine job of enduring--even thriving. As long as the Avengers kept saving the world, the Bartlet administration would keep doing what they could to make it a world worth saving.

*

"You never said."

Will flicked his glance to Sam briefly before returning it to the road. He'd hoped to delay this discussion until they were no longer in a moving vehicle. "I kind of did?" Sam did 'skeptical eyebrow' like nobody's business. Will waved a hand around. "One crazy month in Brno?" he asked. "A guy my dad was helping hide from the US Army? I toldyou all of this."

"You didn't tell me it was the _Hulk_."

"Discretion, Sam! I do have it." Will shook his head. "This was before I even met you. Why is it a problem?"

"Because it's--" Sam rubbed his face, then turned to stare at the traffic in the next lane. "You watched the footage for hours after the invasion, and the interviews and the analyses, and you _had to_ be on the team writing the president's speech, and I thought..." He trailed off uncertainly.

"You remembered my Captain America comic books and thought I was having a fanboy moment."

"I still do it, don't I?" Sam looked over again, sheepish. "All these years together, and I still underestimate you."

Will reached over to squeeze Sam's hand. "I cultivate an aura of unimpressiveness. It's my superpower."

Sam turned his hand over, lacing their fingers together. "He could've hurt you." He lifted his wrist so his timer brushed the skin of Will's arm. "I could've heard that beep and seen my screen go red, and I never would have known--"

"Hey. Sam, _hey_." Will squeezed his hand hard before taking his own hand back to return it to the steering wheel. God, he wished they were doing this someplace stationary, so he could look Sam in the eye. "It's not like that. _He's_ not like that."

"Banner _says_ he can control the shift, but if--"

"No, I mean--neither of them are like that. Yeah, Bruce keeps getting better at controlling the shift. But Hulk's--the anger he was born from is mostly frustration that Bruce couldn't protect his loved ones--couldn't protect himself. He's...surprisingly gentle with people he cares about."  


Will forced himself to breathe evenly while Sam processed this. Then Sam sat bolt upright, breathing harsh, eyes wide and frantic. "You had sex with him!"

"Well... _yeah_." Will frowned. "We were together a month, under charged conditions. He had a lot of tension to burn off."

"No. You had sex _with the Hulk_."

"Ah." Will blushed. But the thing was, he didn't regret a minute of that time. "For...certain values of 'sex', yes."

Sam covered his eyes with his hand and exhaled slowly. "I don't want details, Will." He peeked between his fingers. "Do I?"

"You do not." He cherished the memory of his time with Bruce, but he worked hard not to actively think about certain moments. "And now I'm having sex with you, and am in love with you, and don't think about that time in my life very much."

"I'm not a superhero," Sam said softly, looking away again.

"You are to me."

It was true, and Sam heard that truth in his voice and smiled. Everything felt right again--even when Sam added, "You'll tell me about the sex someday. I have faith in you."

*

Clint wasn't surprised when he and Phil ended up the last members of the party at the club. He stretched and slid to the edge of the couch in preparation for Phil suggesting heading back to the hotel.

Phil turned toward him. "Care to dance?" he asked.

Clint hiked up an eyebrow. "Sure you're up for that? I hear MacDougal was an asshole on the field today."

Phil groaned. "We will talk later about how you know that. But I was thinking upstairs. I hear there's quality swaying to be had up there."

Clint smiled and pushed to his feet, holding out his hand to pull Phil up, as well. "Yeah, all right," he said, "I could sway."

They weren't kidding about the eclectic musical timeline of the upstairs dance floor. As Clint and Phil arrived, the final strains of "Moonlight Serenade" faded into the opening notes of one of those forgettable '80s love songs Clint could never keep straight. Good thing he didn't need to know song titles to sway.

For a minute they moved in silence. Clint moved his hands across Phil's back and arms, soaking in his warmth, watching his pulse jump in his neck. _Alive_ , the pulse whispered. _Thank you_ , Clint whispered back.

He drew back and waited for Phil to look at him. "I love you," he said, clearly and simply, and then he added a name. A name that hadn't been spoken in years, that technically didn't exist anymore, not even on the birth certificate in the Cook County registrar's office where it had first been recorded.

Phil blinked in genuine surprise. "What's that for?"

Clint shrugged. "This weekend's been pretty surreal. Neither of us've had much chance to be ourselves. I'm having trouble even remembering who that is. I thought you might like a reminder that I know you."

Phil drew him close, one hand cradling the back of his head, lips pressing kisses to Clint's neck. Like always, Phil knew what he meant.

Because Phil knew him, too.

**Author's Note:**

> There's [tumbling](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/) afoot!


End file.
